


Clean-up Day

by QueerSherlockian (Anglophile_Fiend)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, Mind Palace, Pining, Post S3 TSOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Fiend/pseuds/QueerSherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>johnlockchallenges valentine's gift exchange for bootsnblossoms who asked for, "Sherlock and John playing Zombie Dice (the physical game, not the app)." As it's post-TSOT wedding, today is moving day for Sherlock's Mind Palace, and it's not a joyful one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean-up Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BootsnBlossoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/gifts).



> I'm sorry it's not fluffy or smutty, but it was written with love.

Minutes ticked by, rolled themselves into hours, as Sherlock sat hunkered in his black leather chair. Knees tucked up under his chin, arms wrapped solidly around them. His chest shifted, and his pulse throbbed, but no other part of him dared move. A stranger looking in on Sherlock now, would think those pale eyes, of an indescribable colour, were staring at a worn red chair. They would be wrong, Sherlock wasn’t even in the room, he was universes away in his own mind.

 

Today was mind palace moving day. Sort the wheat from the chaff, what to keep, and what to delete. He had been careless in the last few years, memories were scattered everywhere. The walls were fading in spots, paint flaking, and carpet shredding. He had to scan through many unwanted memories, just to get past the foyer. Memories like; John bringing him morning tea, worn bathrobe brushing against Sherlock, as he leaned to set down his steaming cuppa. Leaving Sherlock awash in the scent-memory of a freshly scrubbed Watson, as it used to waft over him in clouds.

 

When Sherlock decided to think upon a particular memory, he found himself transported to that moment- as if he was actually there. He was unable to interact with any of these vivid memories, but he viewed them on repeat at his leisure. Like being in a 3D movie, he was able to pause, rewind, and resume the moment. He didn’t spend time reviewing these scenes from his life.  He had already lived them, why would he want to live them again?  But when the scenes involved John Watson, he wanted to view them for eternity.

 

Sometimes Sherlock would spend entire days in these memories, torturing himself with what was, and what will never be. John had moved on, to a life without Sherlock. Even went so far as to ask Sherlock to stand beside him as witness, while he cleaved to another. That tore Sherlock’s into ribbons, though he would never admit it. Instead, he locked himself away in Baker Street. All thoughts turned inward, and he became as unmoving as a mountain.

 

Today was the day he would move all of John, into that room-John’s room. Sherlock no longer desired to trip over the echos of him scattered across every floor of his mind palace, he wanted them all in one place, and locked up tight. John’s room wasn’t always the largest one, but it is now, as Sherlock continues to find more memories to shut away inside. His room used to be filled with brilliant red patterns, and sparkling gold fixtures, but now all the colors have leached out, leaving everything a perfunctory grey.

 

In the midst of cauterizing his memories of John, Sherlock decided to punish himself further by seeking out his favourites. These were Sherlock’s most treasured moments, the times when he was near John, close enough to hear him, smell him, and once even- taste him. That was his most prized memory. The time when against all odds, Sherlock was actually granted his heart’s deepest desire. He had been held by John’s hands, and felt lips brush his own.

 

That memory was replayed so many times, that if it was actual media, it would have been obliterated long ago. Sherlock knew each nuance in that moment, every quirk of an eyebrow, rush of breath, and beat of heart was branded into his mind. Yet, even after watching the entirety of it, Sherlock never could figure out why it happened, or more importantly, how to make it happen again.  He knew it was an especially lost cause now, as John married days ago, but he couldn’t help searching for clues that weren’t there. Each viewing was a dagger to his heart, the one he professed not to have, but in fact was so large, that he had to cover it up with a nasty armour of sociopathy and self-righteousness. The kind of armour that a special man had seen right through, and trusted, as in...used to trust.

 

He played the memory anyhow. The flat chilled by the early December morning. Sherlock spread out on the sofa. John walks into the flat with a small sack.

****************************

“It’s a new game Sherlock. Something fun, and more importantly-something you can’t stab!” John’s eyes positively twinkled with excitement as he shook a small object out of the plastic bag.

Sherlock slowly rose into a slouch, his back against the armrest, knees up, and still covering most of the sofa. “Alright then, what is it?”

 

John walked the game over to him enthusiastically, while freeing a rectangular box from it’s packaging.“It’s called Zombie Dice. You’re supposed to play it with at least three people, so I thought maybe Mrs. Hudson would like to play, or Greg, or Molly.”

“Oh great, other people.” Sherlock moaned skeptically, a hand to his face for unnecessary emphasis.

“It’ll be fun. Promise, look it’s got brains!” John pleaded earnestly. Then pushed Sherlock’s foot aside to make room for himself on the sofa. “Here!” John tossed him a die. Sherlock caught it easily, and rolled the black square with squiggly yellow brains solemnly between his fingers.

 

“Hmm, a probability game. _Dull_.  “Go ahead and invite whomever you’d like John. Hell, Invite them all, why don’t we just have that dreadful Christmas party that you’ve been hinting at?”  
“You’d do that for me? Really, Sherlock do you mean it?”

  
Of course Sherlock hadn’t meant it, not in the slightest, but looking into John’s hopeful eyes, he didn’t have the strength of will to deny him anything. In that moment, Sherlock realized that he cared for John in a way that he could never put into anything as banal as words. John was whom he’d changed his decision for. John was always was the exception to any of his self-imposed rules.

 

“Yes, John, I do. Let’s have a party.” No sooner had he replied, than the stocky army-doctor flung himself at Sherlock, shocking him into breathlessness. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, and John fastened their necks in a tight embrace.

 

Sherlock had to spread his thighs to give John acess as he knelt in front of him, squashing the game, and sending dice skittering around the flat. Little red, yellow and green brains bounced around the hardwood floor, and the sound finally drew Sherlock out of the fog he’d been paralyzed by. It was only seconds that crept by, but it seemed longer for Sherlock to clue into to what was going on. He finally reached out and squeezed John tight against his chest.

 

“Thank you Sherlock. You big prat. I know you don’t really want this, but Thank you. Christmas is bloody hard for me, but the fact that you’re trying to make it better....” John squeezed Sherlock before leaning back to press foreheads. He cupped an ear in each hand. “It means a lot to me, okay? It does. But remember Sherlock, if it’s too much for you- then you’ve got to tell me, okay? This is your home too. I want us all to have a nice Christmas.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, _John cares about me_ , and a small grin snaked it’s way across his face. John was touched at the rare occurrence, a genuine Sherlock smile. Not like the thousand of fake ones he gave out everyday. No, this one was the real thing, and it was clearly for John.

 

Without warning, John tilted his head to cover Sherlock's lips with his own.

It was soft, if a bit dry, and quick, but it was the softness that would stay with Sherlock. He never would have guessed that John’s lips would be that plush. John pulled away from the peck, just as quickly as he started it with a, “Thank you Sherlock.” Then scrambled off the couch to make some phone calls.

 

Sherlock sat there dumbfounded, as John’s warmth was ripped away. Oh no, John.... There was a rush of something in his veins, adrenaline, he correctly deduced. He remained stock still, silently observing the changes in his body, while John’s laugh filtered in from the kitchen. Then the memory cut out abruptly into black. He didn’t watch past that.

 

All that’s left from that moment in time is the revelation. Or rather The Revelation...I love John. No, he didn’t need to think on that. No matter, he could play the memory over again. Rewind. Repeat. Rewind. Repeat. Rewind. Repeat. Over and over, until he was unable to stop the rivers of tears that forced themselves down his cheeks, though to be fair, he didn’t really try. He decided to give in to the sentiment this one time, it was moving day after all. But it would be the last.

 

Sherlock punished himself for the favoured memory the only way he knew how, by spewing hate, like glue to plug up the John-shaped hole in his heart. _John doesn’t love you. John loves Mary. John is happy. You should be happy for John. Why can’t you be happy for him? You are a terrible person. John doesn’t deserve you. He chose her. Not you. Never you_. Sherlock hurled insults at himself like knives, until the tears dried up, and all emotion was halted.

 

Ignoring his transport and it’s physical responses, Sherlock stayed inside his mind palace, slamming and locking the door to John’s room. Then Sherlock scooped up all those cruel words he’d just thought, and painted John’s door with them in blood red. **He Chose Her**. A permanent reminder never to enter again. He gave one last look around the foyer, there didn’t appear to be hidden memories lying about. _Goodbye, John_. Moving day was over, Sherlock clicked the lock on all that sentiment, and felt the tiniest bit of relief.

 

 _There was no need for any of that, it’s not an advantage_. Sherlock reminded himself as he opened his eyes, and checked the clock. _Oh good, I have time to call my dealer, and make it to a spot by daybreak. Perfect._ He unfurled himself from the crouched position he’d been holding for many hours, and drew his body up like a bow. Then Sherlock walked into the kitchen with the intention of making tea, but paused in the entryway to slip a hand in his pocket. It was one of those unconscious ticks that some would call a tell, but it was just the twirl of a single dice.

One with little yellow brains etched onto its sides.

 

 


End file.
